


sunrise

by curiositykilled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Depression, Groundhog Day AU, I'm Sorry, M/M, POV Sam Wilson, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sappy Ending, Some Plot, Temporary Character Death, Wings, not much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 10:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9435395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: Sam first meets Captain America at a VA function. Watching him, Sam feels a pinch of pity. He can’t imagine what it would take to convince someone to squeeze into that spandex get-up, but he’s willing to bet it’s easier when they have nothing else left for them. Sam had come home on shaky legs and barely recognized America after two tours.After seventy years, he’s not sure his legs would hold him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/gifts).



> First off, I am so, so sorry! This is sooo late and just kind of a disaster. I think I spent about as much time researching things about birds and wings as I did writing. Whoops.
> 
> Anyway, if there's anything you want changed, Ponderosa - let me know! Otherwise, I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> WARNING: Steve and Sam both die but it's temporary due to the whole timeloop deal. It's non-graphic, but it's on Day 5 if you want to avoid it. Also, Day 4 has mentions of graphic violence towards winged people if you want to avoid that (Skip from the italic section starting with "Pinion").

          Sam first meets Captain America at a VA function. He’s there in a painted-on red-white-and-blue suit that’s straining to stay together over his pecs, much less in the face of a bullet, and Sam can’t help hoping that’s not what he wore to fight aliens. It looks worryingly familiar.

          The vets are circled around him, cautiously eager. Wings flutter with nerves. Some of the older ones eye him warily - the ones who came back to an America snapping at their necks after Vietnam - but the younger ones are more forward. Meredith says something that Sam can’t hear but makes Captain Rogers smile, and immediately, some of the tension in the room dissipates. Andy’s jay-blue wings shift from tightly raised to half-folded, and Sam smiles a little at the sight. The suits standing in each corner don’t seem affected, but that’s not all that surprising.

          The guy chitchats for a half hour more, polite but carefully held. There’s a line through his shoulders, like someone rigged wire between his bones and pulled it tight. Watching him, Sam feels a pinch of pity. He can’t imagine what it would take to convince someone to squeeze into that spandex get-up, but he’s willing to bet it’s easier when they have nothing else left for them. Sam had come home on shaky legs and barely recognized America after two tours. After seventy years, he’s not sure his legs would hold him.

          One of the men in suits steps forward and says something low in Captain Rogers’ ear. Immediately, the blond’s shoulders slump fractionally and he nods. He excuses himself to the vets with a small smile and stands to follow the suits. He stops where Sam’s standing by the door and offers his hand.

          “Thanks so much for coming by, Captain Rogers,” Sam says, shaking the hand. “It really means a lot to all of us to have you here.”

          “Thank you for having me,” Rogers says. “It’s a real good thing you have going here. I wish” – he breaks off, clears his throat – “I’m glad they can get the help they need. They deserve it.”

          Sam nods, trying to hide his confusion. It almost sounded – no. He brushes the thought away and smiles back at Rogers.

          “You’re welcome back here any time,” he says.

          Rogers nods and releases Sam’s hand. The suits are looking pointedly towards the front door, and Sam takes the hint to step aside.

          “Thanks again,” he says.

          Rogers ducks his head a little but doesn’t say anymore as he’s shuffled towards the door. Sam watches for a moment before turning back to the group still sitting in the main meeting room. The last Sam sees of him is his blond head sticking up above the buzz cuts of his handlers.

 

_ \------- _

 

_ Day One _

          “Shit,” Sam mumbles, resting his head against the fridge door.

          He doesn’t get nightmares as often anymore, but they still sometimes catch him by surprise. Tonight’s was one of those – an all too familiar montage that rippled over him with the slow-motion horror of a blast. If he closes his eyes, he can still see Riley’s scared-surprised face on the backs of his eyelids. He doesn’t close them.

          Within the fridge, there are two questionable apples, approximately a third a cup of half and half, and half a pack of deli meat. He’s not sure why this happens to him. He’s a real adult, with a job and a house and health insurance. He should not run out of anything edible at – he checks the clock on the microwave – four sixteen AM.

          “Fuck me,” he mumbles.

          By the time he finds shoes and a jacket to pull on against the early morning chill, it’s four twenty and he stumbles out to his car with mostly clear vision.

          Blue-white fluorescent lights shine too bright through the front windows of the grocery store, and he can't help squinting as he walks in, shoulders hunched. There's only one cashier working, a middle-aged woman with grey roots showing at the top of her red hair. She glances at him and turns back to the book in front of her. Her dun wings are held tight to her back, protective.

          Sam tugs a basket out of their rack and heads to the back corner for milk first. It is, unfortunately, not the first time he's been here. 

          After snagging a gallon of generic skim, he picks up eggs and cheese and heads to the cereal aisle. He's not alone; a big guy stands in the center of the aisle, shoulders up to his ears. He recognizes both those blue eyes and the distant expression on Rogers’ face.

          Stuck at the end of the aisle, Sam hesitates. There’s a tug in his gut like a rope pulling him towards Rogers. He knows that look intimately, has stood in this exact aisle before, staring through all those colorful boxes. He could help.

          But -

          But it’s his day off, and all he wants is to go home. Three hours of sleep might have sufficed in high school, but it’s been nearly twenty years since then. He’s too tired to help shoulder Rogers’ weight. Another day - any other - and he’d step forward. Right now, he backs away and slips through the coffee aisle.

          He gives the cashier a thin smile, but neither of them make small talk. She turns back to her book as he zips up his jacket; it’s a workbook of some sort, but he doesn’t catch the title before the edge of her wings hide it.

          It hasn’t warmed up outside, and he sits shivering in his car for a minute before the heat catches up, and he drives home. 

          Once there, he makes scrambled eggs - creamy, with just a thin layer of cheese on top - and settles into his couch. It’s the kind of day that passes in a weird sort of haze, with the black-and-white movies on TCM blurring together until he’s not sure what he’s actually watching anymore. By the time he gets up for dinner, the sun’s an orange disc hovering over the horizon and the sky’s a denim blue beyond it. 

          Settling back down with a sandwich, Sam flips the channel away from whatever spaghetti Western is currently playing and to the news. He freezes with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. On the screen, a gurney is being carried down an apartment building’s front steps and towards a waiting ambulance. A white sheet covers it.

          “Captain Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America, has been found dead in his apartment,” the anchor says. “Officials have yet to confirm the means of death, but early reports from the scene say it may have been a gunshot. There has been no comment on whether foul play was involved.”

          Sam blinks, lowering his sandwich slowly to the plate in his lap. He’d seen him just that morning. He pushes the plate onto the coffee table, suddenly sick. He should have said something, should have reached out in some way. He scrubs his hands over his face.

          “This is not your fault,” he mutters.

          He knows it, logically, but that doesn’t mean he believes it. He cradles his head in his hands and, eventually, goes to bed. When he finally falls asleep, he dreams of gunshots and guilt.

 

\-------

 

_ Day Two _

          He wakes up with a jolt, only just keeping himself from rolling onto the floor. It’s not a surprise he had nightmares last night - guilt’s always been his worst enemy.  _ ‘You’re a giver,’ _ his mom said, once.  _ ‘Your big heart just doesn’t know an enemy.’ _ At the time, she’d been consoling him over an elementary scuffle. He wonders if she knew he’d still remember her low voice, her strong wings wrapped around them both, when he was nearly forty and she was long gone.

          He rubs his face as if to brush the thought away and checks the clock on his nightstand. 4:16. He squints at it again.

          “Weird,” he says but still gets up.

          He shuffles down the stairs, socked feet slippery on the carpet. This time, he knows he’s got milk. He’s got time, could make pancakes - even French Toast. He opens the fridge.

          “What the fuck.”

          There are two apples, a third a cup of half and half, and half a pack of deli meat. There is no milk.

          He opens his crispers, just to check, but the eggs and cheese are gone, too. It’s as if they simply vanished. The nape of his neck prickles, fear crawling like spiders under his skin. He’s never heard of a robber stealing groceries, and he didn’t hear anything. He shakes his head and grabs his keys from the counter.

          The same cashier’s at the register, alone amongst the black lines of check-outs. She looks up and he offers a four-fingered wave. She turns back to her workbook. 

          He snags his milk and cheese and glances over the dozen eggs to make sure none are cracked. He grabs a loaf of bread from an endcap on his way to the cereal aisle, basket clutched in his right hand. He freezes.

          “What the fuck,” he mumbles.

          Rogers is there. He’s staring through the cereal boxes again, hair a sickly yellow under the fluorescent lights. Sam stares.

          “Captain Rogers?” he asks.

          He doesn’t get a reply, and his skin pebbles with gooseflesh. He steps forward, cautiously, until he’s only a meter or so away. Rogers still hasn’t blinked. 

          “Captain Rogers,” Sam says again.

          He rests his left hand on Rogers’ shoulder gingerly, ready to pull it back in an instant. Rogers flinches, blinking rapidly.

          “Hey,” Sam says.

          Rogers turns to him, startled and wide-eyed. 

          “Hi,” Sam says. “You seemed a little out of it.”

_           Also, aren’t you dead? _ he wants to demand but, thankfully manages to keep locked down. 

          “Oh,” Rogers says, hoarse. “Sorry.”

          “It’s cool.” Sam shrugs. “Happens all the time.”

          Steve blinks one more time. Something flickers over his face, too quick to read, and then he’s got a mask on again, neutral and unreadable. Abruptly, Sam realizes his hand’s still on Rogers’ shoulder. He pulls it back quickly and turns to the cereals.

          “Seems like they could pick just a couple and get rid of the rest,” he remarks.

          Rogers hums noncommittally. Sam shifts, off-balance. It’s not his business, really, what’s up with Captain America. Maybe he’s undercover or something. 

          “Right,” Sam says, mostly to himself. “Well, I’ll get out of your hair.”

          He grabs the first box his hand comes to and tosses it into his basket along with the others. He’s out of the aisle before he’s even looked up.

          “Hi,” he greets the cashier. “You get stuck with the late shift?”

          She looks at him with a hard frown as she swipes his cheese over the scanner. She’s got lines set deep by her mouth and eyes, and her gaze is guarded. Her wings lift, just slightly. Her nametag reads  _ Martha _ in little white letters.

          “Just filling in,” she says gruffly.

          He bobs his head in a nod and scoops up the plastic bag. He situates it on his wrist as he walks out, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

          There’s almost no traffic at this hour, just a few pairs of headlights flitting past him as he returns home. 

          Once there, he flips on the radio and sets to work whipping up French toast. Adele’s halfway through Rolling in the Deep, and he hums along while swishing the slices of bread through the batter. He drops them individually in a pan on the stove and dunks the next piece in batter while the second side of the first is frying.

_           “Alright folks, I’m signing off. DJ Crystal will get you through the rest of your Friday night,”  _ the DJ says.

          Sam freezes, spatula half-under the finished toast. _It must be a recording,_ he tells himself. Only - only that doesn’t really make sense. Forsaking the pan, he grabs his phone from by the sink and taps the unlock button. _4:53._ _Friday, May 9._

          The phone clatters against the counter as he drops it. That’s impossible. He backs away, as if the phone is causing all of this. It’s impossible. It’s just a glitch and the radio’s just a recording and the cashier just thought he was a creep and - and -

          “What the fuck,” he says, sliding down his fridge to huddle on the floor.

_           I’ve lost it. Oh my god, I’ve finally fucking lost it. _ He wraps his arms around his shins and slips into all those thoughts he doesn’t let himself think like a swimmer letting the tide slip over their head. 

          It’s the smell of burning food that finally rouses him: the piece of toast he left in the pan is a crispy black-brown now. He removes it numbly, flips off the stove, and leaves the French toast and ingredients where they are. His body moves into the armchair in the corner of his living room, the one that lets him see all entrances to the room but has two walls guarding his back. He wraps his arms around his legs and keeps watch. His mind is nothing but distant static now, removed to a safe distance from the earlier panic. 

          At five o’clock, he turns on the news. The same anchor looks sternly into the camera, speckled wings prim and gleaming at her back.

          “Captain Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America, has been found dead-”

          He shuts it off.

 

\-------

_ Day Three _

          His ceiling has approximately sixty-five bumps over his pillow. Some are little, specks no bigger than breadcrumbs, and some are big enough that he can imagine scraping them off with his thumbnail. They’d come away thick and slightly elastic, he thinks, like there’d been too much paint underneath to dry all the way.

          He’s resolutely not looking at his clock. If he’s supposed to learn a lesson from this, maybe it’s that he should just stay in bed. The day will pass, regardless of if he gets out of bed or not. And if he’s stuck in this loop forever, he figures he deserves a day off. 

          He pulls the blankets up to his chin and rolls onto his left side, away from the window. 

          He doesn’t check the fridge. He doesn’t go to the store. He doesn’t turn on the news.

 

\-------

_ Day Four _

          Sam doesn’t bother checking the fridge this time. He pulls on his jacket and a pair of sneakers and shoves his key into the ignition with an air of frigid anger. His shoulders are up by his ears when he stalks past the redheaded cashier, straight to the cereal aisle. It’s almost a relief to see Rogers frozen in place again. 

          “Look, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, and you’re probably not going to believe me,” he says, “but I’ve been living this day over four fucking times, and I’m done. Okay? I’m done.”

          Rogers turns to him jerkily and then blinks, once. His face is eerily calm.

          “Oh,” he says. “So you are real.”

          Sam closes his mouth with a click. That was...not what he’d expected. Rogers watches with virtually no expression as Sam struggles to find a reply to that.

          “What,” he finally manages.

          Rogers shrugs, turning back to the cereal. The fluorescent lights catch his eyes from the side, turning them the kind of translucent blue that comes when you look at glass sideways.

          “I just figured it was another nightmare,” he says. “I wake up, don’t have any cereal, and come here to get some. You show up - or don’t - and I go home. Then I die, and I wake up again.”

          He says it so casually that Sam wants to puke. Adrenaline’s buzzing neon through his veins, and the easy apathy in Rogers’ voice is too wrong. He looks faded under these lights, like they’ve leached out his color.

          “I - I’m pretty sure this is real?” Sam says.

          His voice comes out wavering at the end, and Rogers gives him a wry smile. It’s a cold smile, one meant to be worn when the executioner’s prepping the injection.

          “I thought that for years,” Rogers says. “Right up until they thawed me out.”

_           Oh. _ There’s really nothing Sam can say to that. It makes his skin crawl, the sudden shakiness of reality. It’s not that he hadn’t considered it but - but he’s never been able to lucid dream, and he doesn’t have enough control to feel like he suddenly found out how.

          “Okay,” Sam says. “So what normally happens when you leave?”

          “I say goodnight to Martha,” Rogers says, “and then I head home. I put the cereal away and go to sit down in my living room. And then” - he falters, suddenly unsure - “then, it goes black. And I wake up.”

          “So you aren’t - you aren’t shooting yourself?” Sam asks and immediately cringes. That was not how he meant to phrase that.

          “No,” Rogers says thoughtfully. “I haven’t found a bullet that works yet.”

          Sam’s stomach rolls and twists.

          “What about you?” Rogers asks.

          “I haven’t” - Sam breaks off, realizing he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence without lying. 

          There’s a reason he doesn’t keep guns around the house, and it’s not just because he knows the stats on home invasions.

          He pauses before redirecting. 

          “When I come here, I take my groceries home and make breakfast. On the five o’clock news, they announce that you’ve died. GSW.”

          Rogers looks briefly envious. Sam decides not to think about that too hard.

          “So, I guess we should change it up,” Sam suggests. “Why don’t we get coffee or something?”

          Rogers shrugs noncommittally but follows when Sam heads to the front of the store. He waves at the cashier and she gives him a nod. Sam wonders how often he comes here in the dead of night.  _ ‘I just figured it was another nightmare.’ _ He cringes and pushes that away, too.

          The parking lot’s empty aside from Sam’s Chevy and a beat-up old Toyota. Rogers shoves his hands in his pockets.

          “I walked,” he says.

          His jaw’s jutted and voice clipped, like he’s looking to be challenged.

          “I didn’t,” Sam replies, jingling his keys from his index finger.

          For a moment, Rogers looks surprised. The dead-eyed mask comes back in the time it takes to slide into Sam’s car. He hunches his shoulders up around his ears as Sam starts the car, and they sit there shivering for a minute.

          “Where’re we going?” Sam finally asks.

          Rogers fishes a StarkPhone out of his jacket pocket and opens the navigation app. Immediately, a pleasant British voice starts directing them down the street, towards Union Station. Sam eyes Rogers skeptically, but the blond leads them expertly through the station to a mustard-yellow canopy in front of Ann Taylor. White text along the edge reads ‘au bon pain’ in a curled serif font. Sam’s eyebrows raise, but Rogers just heads to the apparent front, where two teenagers in black aprons blink drowsily. One of them reaches out to smack the other’s arm with one iridescent green wing and the other shoots them a glare before straightening to take their order.

          Rogers orders a dark roast, black, and Sam a Caffe Milano. When Sam sips the froth off the top, Rogers blinks and frowns, briefly.

          “What?” Sam asks. “Gotta enjoy the little things.”

          This only serves to make Rogers frown harder as he turns away, and Sam shrugs. He’s not going to let anyone ruin the experience of hot hazelnut, chocolate, and coffee all swirled into one. He swipes his tongue over his lips, wiping away the chocolate sprinkles that were stuck there.

          “Now what?” Rogers asks, stiff.

          Sam shrugs and takes another sip of coffee, looking around the station.

          “I dunno’,” he admits. “Want to look around for a while? Maybe if we wait long enough, you’ll be safe to go home.”

          “Nothing’s open,” Rogers points out.

          “Yeah,” Sam acknowledges, deflating. 

          There's barely anyone else here - a woman with long brown wings, a security guard slouching against the wall. 

          “We could” - Rogers pauses, clears his throat - “there's an art exhibit in the Main Hall. We could check it out. If you want.”

          Sam can feel himself brighten visibly, but he doesn't care.

          “Yeah,” he says. “You're an artist, right?”

          Rogers turns a delightful shade of tomato as they head past the escalators, and Sam grins. It’s the first time he’s seen him look anything but distantly unhappy.

          “I wouldn't say that,” Rogers mumbles into his coffee.

          “C’mon, the Smithsonian had to fight half the art galleries in the country to get hands on just your sketches,” Sam points out.

          Rogers makes a small noise, and Sam looks over to find his expression has shifted from embarrassed to confused. Sam shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant.

          “My sister works in the curatorial department at Air and Space,” he explains.

          He tries to keep his tone even, like he’s not a ridiculously proud big brother. From Rogers’ expression, he’s not entirely successful. 

          “Younger sister?” Rogers asks.

          “Yeah,” Sam says. “She’s kind of incredible.”

          He can’t help grinning, and Rogers smiles back. Somehow it looks entirely different than the smile he’s seen in press photos. It’s like a hint of sunlight, gold slipping out from between storm clouds.

          They turn into the Main Hall and Sam stops short, gaping.  When Rogers had said ‘art exhibit,’ he’d expected something simple - black panels with the pieces pinned to them like they were at his high school art show. This...isn’t quite that.

          Metal panels hang from nearly-invisible wires hooked into the high, coffered ceiling. They hang suspended, the metal edges gleaming softly in the low light. Only security lights are on, and without sunlight streaming through, the panels are half-hidden, only a silver gleam separating them from the clinging shadows. 

          Sam closes his mouth but can’t quite pull himself forward yet. Rogers takes care of that.

          “C’mon,” he says. “There’s audio.”

          Sam trails after him as Rogers heads to a small black stand on the outside of the gleaming mobile. This close, the hanging panels resolve into a sort of path, where the inner panels hang with their backs to the outer ones. There’s a small white sign on the top of the stand, instructions typed up in neat black font.

_           “ _ Pinion _ is an interactive historical art exhibit. Some content may be disturbing, and we ask you to be respectful of your fellow viewers. We invite you to share this experience - with family, friends, or the stranger next to you in line. Please take a recorder and return it at the end of the exhibit. Thank you, the Artists.” _

          Sam digs his hands into his pockets but only comes up with lint and a balled-up gum wrapper. Rogers, on the other hand, pulls out a StarkPhone with black earbuds wrapped around it lengthwise. He unplugs them and reaches into the gap in the stand to pull out a chunky square recorder. Once he’s plugged in his earbuds, he glances over to Sam and frowns.

          “Don’t have my earbuds,” Sam explains with a shrug.

          “Oh,” Rogers says. “Here, we can share.”

          He offers the right earbud to Sam without quite meeting Sam’s eyes. Sam takes it, fitting it neatly into his ear. Once they’re both set, they walk towards the first panel and hit play.

_           “When I was a child,”  _ a tremulous voice starts, _ “we lived next to Marianne Williams. She had the most beautiful wings I’d ever seen.” _

          The panel hangs vertically and shows an old photo, blurry, of a young woman looking coquettishly over the top curve of her wings. Her hair is tightly curled, bleeding into the black of the background. It’s impossible to tell the colors in the greyscale print, but the way the light glitters over them in patches makes them look iridescent, like hummingbird wings but longer.

_           “She was from Georgia, and she came to New York to be a singer,”  _ the narrator continues _. “She was only staying in our building till she got a spot on Broadway.” _

          Sam grins. He can see the girl staring back at them on the stage, face glowing and wings glittering with the stagelights. 

_           “One day, she left for an audition. I still remember her face that morning.” _ The narrator pauses, takes a rattling breath.  _ “I never saw her again. Some men caught her outside the theatre and attacked her. When they were done, they cut off her wings and nailed them back on. They found her in an alleyway. The police never caught the men.” _

          Sam’s stomach roils, suddenly sour. His mouth is thick with the taste of vomit. The woman’s face has suddenly shifted to look like Abby’s, with her mischievous grin and long wings.

          “Hey. Hey, Mr. Wilson, it’s alright. You’re safe.”

          He blinks back to himself to find Rogers’ hand on his upper arm, his worried face close ahead.

          “Mr. Wilson?” Sam blurts.

          “Sorry,” Rogers says immediately, looking chagrined. “I never spent time with PJs.”

          “Senior Airman,” Sam says, calming down. “But I’m just Sam.”

          He doesn’t look back at the photo, but he can feel his heart rate steadying, going from the rapid cadence it had held to a slower, steadier thump.

          “Okay, Just Sam,” Rogers says, “then it’s Steve, not Captain Rogers.”

          “As you wish,” Sam replies, joking. “It’s from-”

          “I know,” Rog -  _ Steve _ interjects. “I’ve seen it.”

          Sam’s eyebrows shoot up, and Steve sighs, grudging.

          “Natasha’s view of the classics is...a little different than the critics’,” he explains.

          Sam’s pretty sure his eyebrows have hit his hairline by now. The Black Widow likes  _ Princess Bride. The  _ Black Widow. His theory that all the Avengers are secretly huge dorks just got a huge boost.

          “Are you okay, though? Really,” Steve asks. “We don’t have to-”

          Sam waves his concern away.

          “I’m good,” he says. “I just - it hit a little close to home, I guess. My whole family’s got wings, and to think of that happening - to any of them.”

          He breaks off and shakes his head. Steve’s confusion has cleared to be replaced with something sad and distant. 

          “I always thought it ran in families,” he admits.

          Sam shrugs. “It does. I’m a dud.”

          Steve’s frown returns, an indecipherable mixture of emotions on his face. He doesn’t explain, though, just turns to the next panel. Sam follows.

          Sam recognizes this one. It’s famous, in every history book he’s ever seen. Two children cry into their mother’s shoulder as she stares pensively past the camera. There are lines across her face, tension in the curl of her lips. Her hand rests on her chin and the other around her own stomach, but feathered wings curve gently around both children, sheltering them against the dust and depression.

_           “When the dust hit, we always ran to Ma,”  _ a voice says, deep and even.  _ “We’d get into the cellar and she’d wrap her wings around us both. Pa was never around then, but she’d always keep us safe from the storms. It’s the safest I ever felt, under her wings.” _

          They keep going, past images of child laborers with wings caught in machinery, past families with their wings spread to the edge of the photo, lined up from raptor-like wings to small, oval pairs. Some of the stories make Sam hurt again, with a remembered loss that aches through his bones. This is his family’s heritage, his own even if he doesn’t have the wings to prove it. Others make his ribs hurt from laughing, and Steve grins like an idiot when they listen to one story of a child who got their wings early and spent the rest of their youth terrorizing the neighborhood pigeons.

          “Some of the people I work with,” Steve says as they look at a photo from Vietnam, “their wings stop bullets.”

          Sam nods, grinning. He’s seen that in action and it’s never stopped being incredible.

          “It’s insane, isn’t it?” he says.

          Steve glances at him and smiles, just a little, as they continue on.

          It’s near the end that Steve stops short. The cord linking them goes slack and Sam stumbles into Steve’s shoulder. He doesn’t seem to notice. Sam looks up at the photo and his stomach sinks.

          He’s seen this one before, too, though not as often as the one from the Depression. It’s too gruesome for high school texts, and most institutions use it gingerly. A woman is bowed over a young man, a teenager, exposed on a wooden table. The kid’s half on his left side, right hand clinging limply to the woman’s neck. He’s lean, all bone and bare muscle. His face is hidden. His back is bare. Even in black and white, there’s no mistaking the ugly gashes that slice through his shoulders and back, the blood that runs freely over his skin.

_           “My brother got them first,” _ the narrator says, voice tired and aching.  _ “I didn’t know what was happening at the time. Dad was the one to cut them. He did it for all of us. Bu-James didn’t talk the week after that. He was so silent I thought he’d died and it was his ghost walking around with us. He came back to us eventually, but I never forgot that silence. It took a part of you when they took your wings.” _

          “Jesus,” Sam breathes.

          Steve doesn’t say anything, and Sam looks over. There are tears, slow and crystalline, rolling down his cheeks. Sam looks back to the photo, back to Steve.  _ ‘Bu-James.’ _

          “Wait,” he says. “That’s not--?”

          He can’t quite say the name, like it’s sacrilege to suggest it.

          “I should go,” Steve says, voice thick. “It’s been long enough.”

          He tugs his earbud out but doesn’t take it from Sam, just turns and walks out of the exhibit without looking at the rest of the photos.

          “Wait, Steve!” Sam calls, but he doesn’t turn around.

          Instead, Sam is left there with useless earbuds dangling in his hands. After a few minutes, he puts the recorder back where it came from and rolls the earbuds tight before stuffing them in his pocket. He heads home.

          That night, he dreams of wings. They’re gunmetal grey, like the tremulous moments before the sun rises, when the sky is a soft and smokey grey.

 

\-------

 

_ Day Five _

          Sam’s back itches when he wakes, and he scratches at his shoulder blades as he slides out of bed. Instead of checking the clock, he goes to his dresser. After four days of the same clothes, he thinks it’s time to change.

          He still makes it out the door before 4:30 and to the store in record time. Steve is waiting in the cereal aisle. He’s not staring through the boxes this time. Instead, he’s sitting on the floor, back against the opposite shelves. He glances up when Sam sits down next to him, and something flickers across his face before he looks away. His lashes brush his cheeks, long and darker than the cornhusk-blond of his hair. Sam gulps and turns his gaze to the cereals.

          “Sorry about yesterday,” Steve mumbles.

          Sam shrugs, as if it was nothing. 

          “We’ve all got our own things,” he says.

          Steve makes a quiet scoffing noise, as if he can’t quite believe that.

          “You’ve got everything sorted out,” Steve says, bitter. “A job, a life. You can talk to strangers.”

          “And I just really like hanging out in grocery stores at four AM,” Sam adds.

          Steve looks up at him and Sam raises his eyebrows.

          “Come on, man. I know you’re smarter than that,” he says. “Why the hell do you think I was here in the first place?”

          “Some people have early shifts,” Steve says.

          “Mhm,” Sam says, unimpressed.

          Steve is stubbornly silent after that, and Sam rolls his eyes before turning back to the cereal. Finally -

          “Nightmares?” 

          Sam shrugs.

          “Sometimes. Sometimes flashbacks. Riley” - he falters and can’t go on.

          “You lost somebody?” Steve asks.

          Sam nods and works on making his voice work.

          “My wingman,” he says. “Best guy I ever met.”

          “Oh,” Steve says, subdued.

          He’s staring at his hands when Sam looks his way, pressing them together till the fingertips bleed white.

          “You’re not alone, I guess,” Sam says. “The guilt - grief - we’ve all got our own poison.”

          There’s another lull, and Sam starts wondering if Martha’s eventually going to kick them out. It seems like it’d be against store policy to let random people sit on the floor for hours and not buy anything.

          “I don’t think I want to die today.”

_           Oh. _ Sam swallows and looks over to meet Steve’s eyes. They’re so pale in this light, nothing like the ocean-blue they were in the exhibit last night. 

          “I saw something, yesterday,” Steve says. “I think there’s a shooter on the roof next to my apartment.”

          “Okay,” Sam says because he has no idea what to say. 

          “I’m going to try to surprise them,” Steve says.

          “That seems like a terrible idea,” Sam replies. “Want me to come with?”

          Steve grins.

          There’s a Harley sitting in the parking lot this time, all sleek metal muscle.  _ Sweet Jesus. _ Sam trails after Steve. This is, he’s willing to admit, not the best decision he’s ever made. On myriad counts. Steve straddles the seat, Sam behind him. When they pull out, he slips forward, thighs bracketed snug around Steve’s hips. He closes his eyes against the tears the wind brings, and silently relishes the warmth radiating off Steve like a fire. 

          It’s nothing, he knows. It’s not like Steve’s choosing to be with him or even enjoys it. Sam’s the one bringing himself into it - suggesting they go for coffee, offering to guard Steve’s six. Anyway, much as Abby’s academic friends like to argue, there’s no proof Steve’s into anyone but women. Sam firmly pushes away the insidious thought that there’s also no proof he’s not. It doesn’t matter. Once they get this figured out, they’ll never see each other again. The thought sends hollowness spreading through his chest like a cavity. The warmth Steve’s giving off does nothing to fight the cold that follows.

          They pull up alongside a brick apartment building on Hillyer, and Steve kills the engine. There’s a beat where they just sit there in silence, and the motor ticks quietly as it cools. Finally, Steve shifts and steps off. Sam follows as he leads the way down a side street, towards a looming office building of sand-colored concrete. It’s out of place in the neighborhood, too square and modern for all the turrets and flourishes of the surrounding houses.

          The noise of the city is muffled here, muted by the high walls and thick trees. Their steps seem too loud, and Sam strives to walk more quietly as they creep towards the building at the far end of the street. There’s a dumpster they use to climb up onto the first roof and from there clamber up the fire escape to the higher roof. Their steps are whispers now, breathless against the concrete. They press themselves against the wall of the utility room up here and creep forward. The moon’s hidden. The only light comes from the city, red and blue neons casting everything in an eerie glow.

          “Sam-”

          There’s a hiss, pop. 

          Concrete shatters around them, hitting Sam in the shoulders, head. He drops to the ground, arms over his head. There’s something sticky there he doesn’t want to identify. Steve slumps. Sam reaches out, grabs his shoulder, shakes. He doesn’t move.

          “Steve,” he says, begs.

          Something moves in his periphery. He looks up.

          Hiss, pop. Black.

 

_ Day Six _

          He stumbles through the door, bare feet skidding on the tile. 

          “What-” Martha starts.

          He doesn’t linger to hear the end to that sentence. He stumbles into the cereal aisle. Steve’s not there.

          “Shit,” he swears. “Shit fucking shit.”

          He digs his fingertips into his scalp, trying to regulate his breathing. He died. He fucking  _ died. _

          “Sam!”

          He spins. Steve looks about as shitty as he feels. His hair’s sticking up in every direction, eyes wide and pupils tiny. His sweatshirt’s regulation grey, pants nubby from wear.

          “Steve,” Sam breathes.

          He moves before he’s thought it through, arms coming tight around Steve’s chest. Steve’s heavy arms settle just as tight around Sam’s shoulders. He’s warm and alive, heart thudding like a tattoo against Sam’s skin. 

          “You’re alive,” Steve says.

          His breath tickles the shell of Sam’s ear, words coming out in a rush.

          “God,” Sam chokes out. “I saw you die.”

          Steve’s arms tighten, as if reflexively.

          “I’m so sorry,” he says.

          “Not your fault,” Sam says wetly.

          Someone clears their throat behind them.

          “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Martha says. “The store policies are posted by the door.”

          They separate, just slightly, but neither of them seem keen to let go. Steve’s hands are warm where they rest on Sam’s upper arms. Martha looks a little flustered and a little like she’s fighting a smile.

          “No shoes” - she looks pointedly at Steve’s socked feet - “no shirt” - Sam’s bare chest - “no service.”

          Steve turns Red Sox scarlet, and Sam feels his own cheeks heat up.

          “Sorry, ma’am,” Steve apologizes. “We will - uh - we’ll get out of your hair.”

          He’s still holding onto Sam as they make their way to the door, and Sam can feel the pressure like tiny sparks flickering up his veins. 

          “And put on a coat. Christ,” Martha calls after.

          The doors hush closed behind them, and for a moment, there’s silence. Steve snorts. Sam glances at him and starts laughing. Soon, they’re doubled over, half holding each other up. It’s relief more than humor, the pure shock and joy at being alive.

          “We should probably get out of the parking lot,” Steve finally says, grinning.

          He’s irresistible in that moment, skin flushed with happiness and embarrassment. Sam leans in before he catches himself. By then, he’s too close for it to be normal. Steve looks up, his breath fading out in a white cloud. He blinks once, slowly. 

          “I” - he stops, wets his lip - “I’d really like to kiss you now.”

          “Oh,” Sam manages. “Okay.”

          Steve hesitates a moment longer still then leans in. His lips are dry, a little cracked, and he places them carefully on Sam’s. Sam breathes out a sigh and shifts, bringing the hand not on Steve’s back to cradle his jaw. His eyes flutter closed as Steve shifts, too, to bring Sam closer to his chest. For a few moments, the world narrows down to this: Steve’s hard jaw under Sam’s palm, his thick arms pressed into Sam’s back, his fingers just brushing the nape of Sam’s neck.

          When they separate, it’s only barely. Steve’s flushed even more now, lips slightly parted and eyes wide. Sam licks his lips.

          “My place is pretty close,” he offers.

          “Okay,” Steve agrees.

          By unspoken agreement, they take Steve’s motorcycle. This time, Sam doesn’t try to hold back. He snugs up against Steve’s back and gives him directions with his chin hooked on his shoulder.

          They pull up to the house, and Steve hesitates.

          “We don’t have to do--” Sam blurts out.

          “You don’t have to--” Steve starts.

          They both pause, Steve twisted to look over his shoulder at Sam.

          “I just don’t want you to feel like I’ve got - expectations or anything,” Sam says helplessly.

          “Are you worried you’re taking advantage of me?” Steve asks.

          “Well” - Sam trails off, unsure of how to finish.

          Steve grins and twists further so his right leg’s hitched up on the seat between them. He cups Sam’s cheek once more.

          “I want you,” he says firmly, even as his ears turn a darker red. “I’ve been - been living in this haze, and you’re the first shaft of sunlight I’ve seen in months.”

          “Oh,” Sam says. “Alright then.”

          Steve leans in again, presses his lips to Sam’s lip one more time.

          “C’mon,” he says, lips brushing against Sam’s.

          They make it to Sam’s bedroom before they give in and wind up tangled together. Steve’s shirt gets tossed off in the doorway, towards the stairs. They stumble into the bed, Steve’s knees buckling and bringing Sam down on top of him. They break apart, laughing breathlessly. Steve’s awash in gold light from the streetlight, and Sam wishes he painted, wrote poetry, sculpted - had a way to capture and immortalize the joi de vivre illuminated across his face. 

          “If it takes dying,” Steve says, “it will have been worth it to know you.”

          “Okay, Alexander,” Sam teases.

          Steve laughs, and Sam chases the sound on his lips. They fall together, Steve’s body hot and firm against all of Sam. They separate, Sam’s hand pressed to Steve’s sternum, and Steve stares up at Sam with open desire and - and something else than Sam can’t quite catch. There’s a scarlet blush from Steve’s cheekbones down his chest, and Sam leans in to follow it with kisses. 

          Steve’s hands slip from Sam’s shoulders to cup the back of his head. He’s carefully gentle, fingers simply running back and forth over Sam’s short hair as Sam presses a kiss to his hipbone. A shiver ripples through Steve, and Sam grins against him.

          “Uh - Sam?” Steve says.

          Sam looks up, hands planted on either side of Steve’s hips.

          “Is this okay?” he asks. “Sorry, I didn’t - I should’ve asked.”

          “No, it’s not” - Steve shakes his head slightly and leans forward to press a chaste kiss to Sam’s lips - “it’s great. I just - I should probably warn you that I uh - I might break your bed?”

          Sam sits up all the way, sitting back on his heels. Even in this low light, he can tell Steve is tomato red. He blinks - and bursts out laughing.

          “Oh my god,” he gasps. “Has that happened?”

          If possible, Steve flushes darker. He ducks his head.

          “Yes,” he mumbles. “Once. During the war.”

          Sam stifles a laugh and leans forward once more. He keeps his eyes on Steve’s face as his fingers slip into Steve’s waistband and gently tug the pants lower. Steve’s breath hitches and Sam raises his eyebrows.

          “Good?” he asks.

          “Very,” Steve manages.

          Sam grins and sinks lower.

\---

          He wakes abruptly. The room’s still dark, but warmth is pressed up all along his side. His arm is draped over Steve’s chest, and he smiles, small and sleepy, at the memories of last night. Then, he looks at the clock. 3:46. He freezes. 

          The window shifts, slowly begins to slide up. Sam shifts and braces himself over Steve as casually as he can. The window opens completely, still noiseless. A dark figure slides in through the opening. The streetlight glints gold along something metallic on the figure’s left arm. They straighten silently, nothing but a silhouette against the night sky.

          Steve shifts under Sam, waking slowly. His breathing shifts just a little, but his eyes don’t open yet. The figure lifts their arm.

          Sam dives. His back explodes in pain, like a grenade caught under his skin, but he doesn’t feel the bullets hit. There’s just a quiet metallic sound, and then Steve’s pushing up and over Sam. Sam turns - and nearly falls over. Wings. He has wings. 

          “Holy shit,” he breathes, but there isn’t time to do or think any more than that.

          The intruder’s matching Steve hit for hit, moving with a speed and fluidity that isn’t normal, isn’t natural. He slips through Steve’s holds, hones in on his weaknesses. It doesn’t help that Steve’s mostly naked and he’s in some sort of tac gear.

          Steve’s the greatest soldier in history for a reason, Sam knows, but he’s fighting like he’s a little unbalanced, missing a limb - or a shield. Sam straightens to standing, wings a new but familiar weight on his back. He knows next to nothing about these, but it’s not the first time he’s fought with wings. He sends up a silent prayer that they’re as resilient as his EXO ones and dives in.

          He catches the intruder by surprise, clotheslining him with one wing as he moves in towards Steve. The gun he’d had originally is gone - Sam tries to catch sight of it without losing sight of the fight - but he’s got a knife in hand and at least one more gun holstered on his back. Sam’s willing to bet there’s more.

          Steve adjusts rapidly, fitting himself seamlessly to Sam. They slide together, attacking while the other falls back, falling in when the other’s about to get hit. Sam’s new wings don’t bend quite like the EXO wings, but it’s close enough that he can adjust as he fights. 

          By the time the intruder’s down, they’re both bleeding from cuts and stabs that neither could quite block. It took Sam knocking the attacker down and Steve choking him out for the fight to end, and Sam eyes the intruder with healthy caution. 

          “Well, then,” Steve breathes.

          He’s sitting on the intruder’s back presumably as a significant deterrent to rising should the intruder wake up. The sun’s not up yet, but the sky’s turned a fuzzy grey beyond Sam’s window.

          “Should we call someone?” Sam asks.

          “SHIELD,” Steve sighs. “Mind grabbing my phone?”

          Sam straightens to grab Steve’s sweatpants from the other side of the bed and fish Steve’s phone out of his pocket. He passes it over without a word, and Steve presses ‘4’ before holding it to his ear. The ensuing conversation is terse and subdued.

          While he talks, Sam crouches to examine the unconscious intruder. He’s wearing heavy tac gear, smudged eye black over closed eyes, and a black half-mask over the lower part of his face. Sam reaches out gingerly and unclasps the mask from behind his head. It’s a wicked thing inside, all hard plastic and ridges. The skin underneath is creased with red lines and sore-looking dents. Beyond the marks, the intruder’s face looks like it could have been attractive, once, with full pink lips and long lashes - but even unconscious, he looks haggard and exhausted.

          “Jesus,” Sam mutters.

          Steve leans forward and freezes. Sam can hear a distant voice on the other end of the phone.

          “Steve?” he asks.

          Steve shakes his head.

          “It’s not possible,” he says.

          “Steve, what is it?” Sam presses.

          “Bucky?” Steve asks, reaching out as if to touch the intruder’s still face.

          The intruder twitches, brow furrowing. He blinks slowly, blue eyes distant.

          “Steve?” he mumbles.

          “Bucky,” Steve breathes, dropping to his knees by his side.

          The intruder blinks once more, brow furrowing deeper. Then, as one, he snaps together up into a crouch. Awake, he’s nothing but animal wariness, drawn together like a snake. Steve holds out his hands palm up, like he’s begging.

          “Bucky, please, it’s me,” he says. “It’s me, Steve.”

          “Who the hell is Bucky?” the man growls.

          Sam glances between the two, trying to piece it together. It’s impossible, and yet - like everything American born after 1946, he’s seen Bucky Barnes’ face in a dozen history books. The man before him looks exhausted, worn, but all the features are still there. Beside Sam, Steve is frozen. 

          “Bucky-” Steve starts.

          The man - Barnes? - bolts out the still open window. Sam lunges, reaching for his leg. He doesn’t adjust for the new weight of his wings, though, and overbalances. 

          “Shit,” he swears, landing on an open cut from the fight.

          Steve catches him, warm on Sam’s bare side. He still looks pale, shaken, but he pulls Sam up and close.

          “Thanks,” Sam says.

          Steve nods. He shifts to wrap his arm around Sam’s waist, brushing against the lowest feathers. They tickle his skin where they attach, a distant sensation. For a long moment, they are both silent as the sky starts to lighten. 

          “Are you okay?” Sam finally asks.

          “No,” Steve admits.

          He’s staring through the window when Sam looks up, as if he can see something far in the distance. To Sam’s eyes, there’s nothing but the slowly rising sun, but he has a feeling Steve’s looking into the past more than anything.

          Sam’s arm’s pinned by Steve, but he tentatively curves a wing around Steve’s shoulder. They’re the same gunmetal grey as in his dream, with near-black pinions and dove grey coverts. He can’t quite keep himself from sneaking quick peeks at them every few seconds. He can feel the short shift against his skin, the breeze ruffle the tips of the primaries. It’d be unnerving if it weren’t for the way he feels, suddenly, whole.

          There’s a quiet thud, and they both stiffen. Steve’s fingertips dig into Sam’s side. Before either can move, there are footsteps in the doorway. 

          “Rogers.”

          “Natasha,” Steve breathes, turning away from Sam.

          Sam’s side feels cold with the lack of his superheated body, and he can feel his wings raise up defensively at the redhead who sashays into the room. Her face seems vaguely familiar, like he saw it once in a crowd, but he doesn’t recognize her.

          “It’s okay, Sam. She’s good people,” Steve says.

          The redhead, Natasha, raises manicured eyebrows as if in surprise. Long white wings are folded against her back, the pinions pitch black.

          “And who’re you?” she asks.

          “This is Sam,” Steve says. “He’s my - friend.”

          Natasha doesn’t quite look like she believes that, but she lets it go after a quick appraisal of both of their mostly-naked bodies. Sam would feel uncomfortable if it weren’t for the clinical way she does it, like she’s looking for injuries and doesn’t really care about the rest.

          “What happened?” she asks.

          “Bucky” - Steve stops and shakes his head.

          “A man broke in through the window,” Sam says. “He tried to shoot Steve and I covered him. We took him down, but he escaped.”

          “What was he like?” Natasha asks, stepping closer to the window. She picks up the gun laying nearby and examines it.

          “Fast, strong, had a metal arm,” Sam says after a glance at Steve.

          “It was Bucky,” Steve blurts out.

          Natasha looks up from the gun. She’s pulled out the clip and holds it in one hand. Sam’s wing pulls in tighter around Steve.

          “It was him,” Steve says. “He didn’t even know me.”

          Natasha turns back to the gun, a slight pinch in her brow. 

          “How’s it even possible?” Sam asks.

          “I don’t know.” Steve shakes his head. “I saw - I thought I saw him die. I didn’t even look for him.”

          “It’s not your fault, Steve,” Natasha says.

          She’s rechambered the gun and holds it loosely as she steps closer. She offers a hand to Steve, who takes it after a moment. She looks pensive now, the immaculate mask she’d worn when she entered replaced by a tight expression around her eyes.

          “The operative you fought - he’s called the Winter Soldier,” she says as they stand.

          “Winter Soldier?” Sam echoes.

          “He’s a ghost,” Natasha says. “Credited with over a dozen kills - over the last fifty years.”

          Sam’s eyebrows raise. Fifty years is a hell of a long time for an operative to be in the field. 

          “Zola - when Bucky was captured, Zola experimented on him,” Steve says. “Whatever he did, it must’ve helped him survive the fall.”

          Natasha’s quiet a moment, looking over Steve’s shoulder through the far wall. Finally, she shakes her head.

          “Go to the Tower,” she says. “I’ll be there in a little bit.”

          Sam starts to object, but Steve only nods. The fight seems to have left him in a flood, leaving his broad shoulders slumped. Sam tucks his wings against his back, the unfamiliar weight pitching his shoulders forward slightly.

          “We should probably get some clothes,” Steve says.

          They do, dressing in silence while Natasha slips away. She doesn’t say where she’s going, and Sam doesn’t actually catch the moment she leaves. She’s just there one second and gone the next. He tries not to think too hard on it. It’s somehow more impressive now that he knows she’s secretly a nerd.

          When he goes to pull on a shirt, Sam freezes. He can get it around his neck and upper arms, but the bases of his wings reach up high enough that he can’t even wear it like a crop top. He slumps forward with a groan. When Abby got her wings, their mom had taken her out for new clothes the next day. He’s fairly sure he and Steve don’t have time for a pitstop at Macy’s right now.

          “Oh,” Steve says. “I didn’t think about that.”

          Sam glances over with his arms spread as much as he can with a t-shirt binding his upper arms.

          “I don’t know, I think it’s a good look,” he jokes.

          “Anything’s a good look on you,” Steve says.

          He flushes and clicks his mouth shut as if he hadn’t quite meant to say that. Sam stares at him for a moment before he starts sniggering. In a moment, they’re both laughing. 

          “Shit, sorry,” Steve laughs.

          Sam flaps one hand.

          “Don’t,” he says. “But I probably should figure something else out.”

          He digs an old workout tank out of his dresser and - with Steve’s help and a pair of scissors - manages to finagle it more or less over his torso. Once that’s done, they head down to the road. Sam’s a little relieved to see a sleek black sedan parked out front with an SI logo on the grille. As much as he enjoyed Steve’s bike, he’s not sure how well it would go with his new, sensitive wings.

          They slide in, Sam stretching his wings enough to curl against the window and back of the seat. Steve scootches close, tangling his fingers with Sam. They’re quiet for the first few minutes of the drive. It’s only once they’re stuck at a red light that Steve speaks. He looks out the window while he does.

          “I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” he says. “If you - if you want to leave, I’m not gonna’ blame you.”

          “I know.” Sam squeezes his hand. “But I just lived through the same shitty day five times over with you, so really, you think this is going to scare me away?”

          Steve smiles. It’s small, slightly strained, but there’s honest relief in his eyes. He leans in and presses a chaste kiss to Sam’s lips as the car starts moving again.

          “You’re not a dud, Sam Wilson,” Steve says, leaning into Sam’s shoulder, “you’re a miracle.”

          They sit like that, leaning together, as the car pulls further through Manhattan. The sun’s starting to peek over the horizon, and Sam glances briefly at the clock. 6:30. He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Sam's wings are a grey falcon's and Natasha's are a whooping crane's.


End file.
